Learning

Henry Tinhorn

Ripe were my dreams
contented in tattered jeans.
When life had no meaning
to a face always beaming.

Two words and a mouth
was all it took.
“DIRTY INJUN!”
I sighed.
wept wailed.
knowing brotherhood was forgotten.

Mother, it’s no use crying.
Tomorrow I shall be gone.
Mourn not for me, the dying.

My sights were blurred by tears to the rim.
And I died each time I heard the words
“Dirty Injun” and “boy.”
Tomorrow, under a blanket of dirt
I will lay, cold and unfeeling.